Mercy
by devils-biatch99
Summary: In Ginny’s small home-town, Draco comes to her aid when her medical clinic is vandalized. He discovers a cold-blooded Alpha Club, whose motive is to silence Ginny, to one person who may have information to destroy them.
1. Default Chapter

Prologue 

War. It came and went. It took. Relentlessly. Family members dwindled. The Weasley's, for example, lost many members, Charlie, Bill, Fred and George, as well as the family matriarch, Molly Weasley. Alliances were forged, the heir to the Malfoy fortune switched sides to the path of the Phoenix. And friendships emerged, as Potter and Malfoy fought side by side. Voldemort had been defeated, along with his right-hand-man Lucius Malfoy. Yet, not all his followers were eradicated. Few remained and escaped, their actions henceforth, performed in secrecy.

Chapter One Present Day, England 

The first one was a mercy killing.

She was dying a very, very slow death. Each day there was a new indignity, another inch of her once magnificent body destroyed by the debilitating disease. Poor, poor Mafalda. Seven years ago she had been a beautiful bride with a trim, hourglass figure men lusted after and women envied, but now her body was fat and grossly bloated, and her once perfect alabaster skin was blotchy and sallow.

There were times her husband, John, didn't recognize her anymore. He would remember what she used to look like and then see with startling clarity what she had become. Those wonderful sparkling green eyes that had so captivated him when he'd first met her were now glazed and milky from too many Draft of Peace potions.

The monster was taking its time killing her, and for him there wasn't a moment's respite.

He dreaded going home at night. He always stopped at Diagon Alley to purchase a two-pound box of Godiva chocolates first. It was a ritual he had started two months ago to prove to her that he still loved her, in spite of her appearance. He could have had the chocolates delivered daily to her house, of course, but the errand stretched out the time before he had to face her again. The next morning the almost empty gold box would be in the porcelain trash can next to the king-size canopy bed. He would pretend not to notice she'd gorged herself on the sweets, and so would she.

John no longer condemned her for her gluttony. The chocolates gave her pleasure, he supposed, and there was precious little of that in her bleak, tragic existence these days.

Some nights, after purchasing the chocolates he would Apparate back to his office and work until fatigue overcame him and he'd be forced to go home. As he Apparated to his living room, he'd inevitably start shaking as if he were suffering from hypothermia, but he wouldn't actually become physically ill until he entered the black-and-white foyer of his house. Gripping the box of chocolates in his hand, he'd place his Gucci briefcase on the hall table and stand there in front of the gilded mirror for a minute of two taking deep, calming breaths. They never soothed him, but he repeated the habit anyway night after night. His harsh breathing would mingle with the ticking of the grandfather clock on the wall adjacent to the mirror. The tick-tick-tick would remind him of the timer on a bomb. A bomb that was inside his head that was about to explode.

Calling himself a coward, he would make himself go upstairs. His shoulders would tense and his stomach would twist into knots as he slowly climbed the circular staircase, his legs feeling as though they were encased in cement socks. By the time he reached the end of the long hallway, perspiration would dot his brow and he would feel cold and clammy. He'd wipe his forehead with his handkerchief, plaster a phony smile on his face, and open the door, trying with all his might to mentally brace himself for the foul stench hanging in the air. The room smelled of iron pills, and the thick vanilla-scented air freshener the House-Elves insisted on spraying into the stagnant air only made the stench worse. Some nights it was so bad, he had to hurry out of the room on a false errand before she heard him gag. He would go to any length to keep her from knowing how repulsed he was.

Other nights his stomach could handle it. He'd close his eyes, which he leaned down and kissed her forehead, then he'd move away while he talked to her. He'd stand by the treadmill he'd bought for her a year after they were married. He couldn't remember if she had ever turned it on. A stethoscope and two identical, voluminous, floral silk bathrobes hung on its handlebars now, and its wide black vinyl belt wore a coat of dust. The House-elves never seemed to remember to clean it. Sometimes, when he couldn't bear to look at Mafalda, he'd turn and stare out the arched Palladian windows at the softly lit English garden behind the house, enclosed like all the other minuscule yards with a wrought-iron fence.

The WWN (Wizarding Wireless Network) would be blaring behind him. It was on twenty-four hours a day, turned to either the "Witching Hour", with popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck or the Weird Sisters. She never thought to turn it down when he was talking to her, and he'd gotten to the point where he could ignore it. Although he'd learned to block the incessant chatter, he often found himself marveling over the deterioration of her brain. How could she watch such drivel hour after hour after hour? There had been a time, before the illness took over her life and her personality, when she had been an intellectual who could cut any adversary to the quick with one of her incredibly clever whiplash retorts. He remembered how she loved to debate Ministry politics, put a right-wing conservative at her impeccably appointed dinner table and there were guaranteed fireworks, but now all she wanted to talk about and worry about were her bowel functions; that, and food, of course. She was always eager to talk about her next meal.

He often thought back seven years to their wedding day and remembered how desperately he had wanted her. These days, he dreaded being in the same room with her- he slept in the guest quarters now- and the torment was like acid in his stomach, eating him alive.

Before she had taken to her bed out of necessity, she'd had the spacious suite decorated in pale green tones. The furniture was oversized Italian Renaissance, and there were statues of two favored Roman poets; Ovid and Virgil. The plaster busts squatted on white pedestals flanking the bay window. He had actually liked the room when the clever, young, Slytherin, interior designer had finished it, so much so that he'd hired her to redecorate his office, but now he despised the bedroom because it represented what was now missing in his life.

As much as he tried, he couldn't escape the constant reminders. A couple of weeks ago he'd met one of his partners at a trendy new bistro for lunch, but as soon as he walked inside and saw the pale green walls, his stomach lurched and he had trouble catching his breath. For a few terror-filled minutes he was certain he was having a heart attack. He should have Apparated to St Mungo's for help, but he didn't. Instead, he ran outside into the sunlight, taking deep, gasping breaths. The sun on his face helped, and he realized then that he was in the throes of a full-blown anxiety attack.

At times he was certain he was losing his mind.

Thank God for the support of his three closest friends. He met them for drinks every Friday afternoon to unwind, and how he lived for Fridays when he could unburden himself. They would listen and offer him solace and compassion.

What an ironic twist, that he should be the one out drinking with his buddies, while Mafalda was the one wasting away in solitude. If the Fates were going to punish one of them for their past sins, why was it she and not he? Mafalda had always been the upstanding, morally superior one in the marriage. She had never broken a law in her life, well, with the exception of accepting his status as a Death-eater. But she would have been stunned if she'd known all that John and his friends had done.

They called themselves the Alpha Club. Bartemius, at thirty-four, was the oldest of the group. Dedalus and John were both thirty-three, and Antonin, who they had nicknamed Pretty Boy because of his dark good looks, was the youngest at thirty-two. The four friends had gone to Hogwarts, and though they were in different classes, they had been drawn to each other because they had so much in common. They shared the same drive, the same goals, and the same ambition. They also shared the same expensive tastes, and none of them minded breaking the law to get what they wanted. They started down the criminal path in Hogwarts when they found out how easy it was to get away with petty larceny. They had also discovered it wasn't very lucrative. On a lark, they committed their first felony when they had left Hogwarts and joined the Death Eaters, robbery of a jewelry store in Hogsmeade, and they fenced the precious gems like pros. Then John, the most analytical in the group, decided the risks were too great for the return they were getting, even the best-laid plans could go wrong because of the elements of chance and surprise. So they'd began committing more sophisticated white-collar crimes in the Muggle world, using their education to foster connections.

Their first real windfall came after "the boy who lived" killed the Dark Lord. When the club was freed from the rigid rules of conduct being a Death Eater required. It allowed them to extend, to form new ways of increasing their capital, more specifically, the use of Muggle devices such as the Internet. Using their sleek laptops, they purchased worthless stocks under an alias, flooded the chat rooms with false data and rumors, and then, after the stocks had skyrocketed, sold their shares before the security regulators discovered what was going on. Thee return on that little venture was over five thousand percent.

Every dollar they extorted or stole was put in Alpha Club's account in the Cayman Islands. By the time the four of them had taken positions in London, they had collected over four million pounds.

And that only whetted their appetites.

During one of their gatherings, Bartemius told the other that if a psychiatrist ever examined them, he would discover that they were all sociopaths. John disagreed. A sociopath didn't even consider anyone else's needs or desires. They, on the contrary, were committed to the club, the Cause and to the pact that they had made to do whatever they had to do to get what they wanted. Their goal was eighty million dollars by the time the oldest turned forty. When Cameron celebrated his thirtieth birthday, they were already halfway there.

Nothing could stop them. Over the years, the bond between the friends had strengthened, and each would do anything, anything at all, to protect the others.

While each of them brought his own special talents to the club, Bartemius, Dedalus and Antonin knew that John was the mastermind, and that without him they would never have gotten as far as they had. They couldn't afford to lose him, and they became increasingly alarmed over his deteriorating state of mind.

John was in trouble, but they didn't know how to help. They simply listened as he poured his heart out. The topic of his beloved wife would inevitably come up, and John would fill them in on the latest horrific developments. None of them had seen Mafalda in years because of the illness. That was her choice, not theirs, for she wanted them to remember her the way she had been, not the way she was now. They sent gifts and cards, of course. John was like a brother to them, and while they were genuinely sympathetic about his wife's condition, they were more concerned about him. In their collective opinion, she was, after all, a lost cause. He wasn't, and they could see what he couldn't, that he was headed for disaster. They knew he was having trouble concentrating while at work- a dangerous tendency given his occupation; he was also drinking too much.

John was getting roaring drunk now. Antonin, had invited him and the others over to his new penthouse apartment to celebrate the success of their latest venture. They sat at the dining room table in plush, upholstered chairs, surrounded by a panoramic view of the river. It was late, almost midnight, and they could see the lights twinkling outside in the inky darkness. Every few minutes the sound of a foghorn would hum mournfully in the background.

The noise made John melancholy, "How long have we been friends?" He slurred the question, "does anybody remember?"

"About a million years," Bartemius said as he reached for the bottle of Chivas.

Dedalus snorted with laughter. "Man, it seems that long, doesn't it?"

"Since high school," Antonin said, "when we started the Alpha Club." he turned to John, "you use to intimidate the hell out of me. You were always so smooth and self-assured. You were more polished than the teachers."

"What'd you think of me?" Bartemius wanted to know.

"Nervous," Antonin answered, "you were always… edgy. You know what I mean? You still are," he added.

Dedalus nodded, "You've always been the cautious one in the group."

"The worrier," Antonin said, "whereas Dedalus and I have always been more…"

"Daring," Dedalus suggested, "I never would have been friends with any of you guys if John hadn't brought us together."

"I saw what you didn't," John said then, "talent and greed."

"Here, here," Bartemius said as he raised his glass in a mock salute to the others.

"I think I was just sixteen when we started the Alpha Club," Dedalus said.

"You were still a virgin weren't you?" Bartemius asked.

"Hell, no. I lost my virginity by the time I was nine."

The exaggeration made them laugh, "Okay, so maybe I was a little older," Dedalus said.

"God, we were cocky little shits back then, weren't we? Thinking we were so clever with our secret club," Antonin said.

"We _were_ clever," Bartemius pointed out, "and lucky. Do you realize the stupid risks we took?"

"Whenever we wanted to get drunk, we'd call for a meeting of the club," Dedalus said, "We're lucky we haven't turned into alcoholics."

"Who says we haven't?" Bartemius asked, and then laughed again.

John held up his glass, "A toast to the club and to the tidy profit we just made, thanks to Antonin's oh-so-sweet insider information."

"Here, here," Bartemius said as he clinked his glass against the others. "I still can't figure out how you got that information, though."

"How do you think I got it?" Antonin asked, "I got her drunk, fucked her brains out, and after she passed out, I went through her computer files. All in a nights work."

"You boinked her?" Bartemius howled.

"Boinked? Who uses that word these days?" Antonin asked.

"I want to know how you got it up. I've seen the woman. She's a pig," Dedalus said.

"Hey, I did what I had to do. I just kept thinking of the eight hundred thousand we'd make, and I…"

"What?" Bartemius asked.

"I closed my eyes, okay? I don't think I can do it again, though. One of you guys will have to take over. It pretty much… sucked," he admitted with a grin over his pun.

Bartemius emptied his glass and reached for the bottle, "Well, too bad. You're stuck with the job as long as women go crazy over those bulging muscles and that movie-star face of yours."

"In five more years we'll all be set for life. We can walk away, disappear if we have to, do whatever we want. Don't lose sight of the goal," Dedalus said.

John shook his head., "I don't think I can hold on five more years. I _know _I can't."

"Hey, you've got to keep it together," Bartemius said, "We've got too much to lose if you fall apart on us now. You hear me? You're the brains of this outfit. We're just…"

He couldn't come up with the right word. Antonin suggested, "Co-conspirators?"

"We are that," Dedalus said, "but we've all done our part. John's not the only one with brains. I'm the one who brought Bellatrix in, remember?"

"Oh, for God's sake, this isn't the time for an ego tantrum," Antonin muttered, "you don't need to tell us how much you do, Dedalus. We all know how hard you work. As a matter of fact, that's all you do. You've got nothing outside your job and the Alpha Club. When's the last time you took a day off or went shopping? I'm guessing never. You wear the same black or navy dress-robe every day. You're still taking a brown bag for lunch- and I'll bet you even take the bag home to use again the next day. For that matter, when have you ever picked up a tab?"

"Are you saying that I'm a cheapskate?" Dedalus countered.

Before Antonin could answer, Bartemius interrupted. "Knock it off you two. It doesn't matter which one of us is the smartest or works the hardest. We're all culpable. Do you know how many years we'd get in Azkaban anyone found out what we've done?" Bartemius asked.

"No one's going to find out anything." John was angry now, "they wouldn't know where to look. I made sure of that. There aren't any records except on my home computer disks, and no one's ever going to have access to those. There aren't any other records, no phone calls, no paper trail. Even if the Ministry gets curious, they wouldn't find a shred of evidence to pin on us. We're clean."

"Bellatrix could lead the police to us," Bartemius had never trusted the courier, or "hired help" as John called him, but they needed someone reliable, an implementer, and Bellatrix Lestrange fit the deal. She was every bit as greedy and corrupt as they were and had everything to lose if she didn't do what they wanted.

"She's worked for us long enough for you to start trusting her Bartemius," Antonin said, "Besides, if she goes to the police, she'll take a much harder fall than we will."

"You got that right," John muttered, "look, I know we said that we'd keep going until Bartemius turned forty, but I'm telling you I can't last that long. Some days I think my mind… oh, hell, I don't know."

He got out of his chair and crossed to the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared at the lights. "Did I ever tell you guys how Mafalda and I met? It was at the Contemporary Arts Center. We both wanted to buy the same painting, and somehow, during our heated argument, I fell in love. Man, the sparks between us… it was something to see. All these years later, and that spark's still there. Now she's dying and I can't do a damn thing to stop it."

Bartemius glanced at Antonin and Dedalus, who both nodded, and then said, "We know how much you love Mafalda."

"Don't make her a saint John. She isn't perfect," Dedalus said.

"Jeeze, that was cold," Antonin muttered.

"It's okay. I know Mafalda isn't perfect. She has her quirks, just like we do. Who isn't a little compulsive about something?" he said. "Its just that she worries about being without something, and so she has to have two of everything. She has two WNN sets, identical ones, sitting side by side on the table by her bed. She has one of them on day and night, but she worries it might break, so she makes sure she has a backup. She does the same thing when she's ordering something from a store or catalog. Always buys two, but what's the harm in that?" he asked, "she isn't hurting anyone, and she has so little joy these days. She puts up with me because she loves me," bowing his head he whispered, "she's my entire life."

"Yes, we know," Bartemius agreed, "but we're concerned about you."

John whirled around to confront them. His face was twisted with anger, "Hell, you're worried about yourselves. You think I'll do something to screw it all up, don't you?"

"The thought crossed our minds," Bartemius admitted.

"John, we can't afford for you to go crazy on us," Antonin said.

"I'm not going to go crazy."

"Yeah, okay," Dedalus said, "here's the way we're gonna play it. John will tell us if he needs help. Isn't that right?"

John nodded, "Yeah, sure."

His friends let the subject drop and spent the rest of the evening plotting their next project.

They continued to meet on Friday afternoons, but they kept silent about John's mounting depression. None of them knew what to do about it, anyways.

Three months passed without a mention of Mafalda. Then John broke down. He couldn't bear to watch Mafalda suffer anymore, and he told them he was worried about money all the time now, which he thought was ludicrous given the fact that they had millions tucked away in the Alpha Club account. Millions they couldn't touch for five more years. He told them that insurance covered a pittance of the treatment Mafalda needed, but not nearly enough, and if his wife continued to linger, her trust would eventually be gone and he would be financially ruined. Unless, of course, the others agreed to let him dip into the Alpha Club account.

Bartemius protested, "You all know how _I'm_ hurting for money, what with my divorce pending, but if we make a withdrawal now, without closing out the whole account, we could create a paper trail, and the IRS-"

John cut him off, "I know. It's too risky. Look, I shouldn't have brought it up. I'll figure something out," he said.

The following Friday afternoon, they met at their favorite bar, Dooley's. While it thundered and poured outside, and the Weird Sisters sang over the speakers, John leaned across the table and whispered his dark wish aloud.

He wanted to kill himself and end the torment.

His friends were appalled and outraged. They admonished him for even thinking such crazy thoughts, but it didn't take them long to see that their rebukes were not helping. One the contrary, they realized they were adding to his misery and depression. Their harsh words quickly turned into solicitous ones. What could they do to help him?

Surely there was something they could do.

They continued to talk, huddled around a table in the corner of the bar, putting their heads together to come up with a viable solution to their friend's untenable situation. Later, near midnight, after hours and hours of discussion, one of them was bold enough to suggest what they were all thinking. The poor woman was already under a death sentence. If anyone should die, it should be his pathetic, long-suffering wife.

If only.

Later none of them would be able to remember who had voiced the proposal to kill her.

For the next three Friday afternoons, they discussed the possibility, but once the debate had ended and the vote had been taken, there was no going back. The decision, when it was finally made, was unanimous. There were no second thoughts, no nagging doubts on the part of any of the members of the club.

It was as absolute as dried blood on white carpet.

They didn't consider themselves monsters or admit that what they were doing was motivated by greed. No, they were simply white-collar overachievers who worked hard and played harder. They were risk-takers, feared by outsiders because of the power they wielded. They were known as real ball breakers, a term they considered flattery. Yet, despite their arrogance and their audacity, none of them had the courage to call the plan what it really was, murder, and so they referred to it as "the event."

They did have balls of steel, considering that Dooley's was located just half a block away from the Ministry. While they planned the felony, they were surrounded by Aurors and Ministry Officials. The Aurors and Officials were considered Dooley's their personal watering hole, but then, so did the overworked and under appreciated interns from St Mungo's. The groups rarely mingled.

The Alpha Club didn't take sides. They sat in the corner. Everyone knew who they were, though, and until the serious drinking got under way, they were constantly interrupted by greetings from coworkers and ass-kissers.

Oh, yes, they had gall and nerve, for in the midst of Britain's finest, they calmly talked about the mercy killing.

The discussion would never have gotten this far if they hadn't already had the connection they needed. Bella had killed for money, and she certainly wouldn't have any qualms about killing again. Dedalus was the first to see the potential and to take advantage by saving Bella from Azkaban. Bella understood the debt she would have to repay. He promised Dedalus that she would do anything, anything at all, as long as the risks were manageable and the price was right. Sentiment aside, their killer was, above all else, a businesswoman.

They all met to discuss the terms at one of Bella's favorite hangouts, which was a dilapidated gray shack just off Knockturn Alley. The bar smelled of tobacco, peanut shells that customers discarded on the warped floorboards, and spoiled fish. Bella swore that the shack had the best fried shrimp in England.

She was late and made no apology for her tardiness. She took her seat, folded her hands on the tabletop, and immediately outlined her conditions before accepting their money. Bellatrix Lestrange was an educated woman, which was one of the reasons Dedalus had saved her from a Dementor's Kiss. They wanted a smart person, and she fit the bill. She was also quite distinguished looking, very refined and shockingly polished for a professional criminal, a Black by birth after all. Until she was taken to Azkaban, Bella's sheet had been clean. After she and Dedalus had struck the deal, she did a little bragging about her extensive resume, which included vying for third in command under Voldemort, as well as the arson, blackmail, extortion and murder that goes hand in hand. The Ministry had enough evidence to convict Bellatrix on participation in the Dark Lord's war, evidence that was deliberately misplaced.

The very first time the others met Bellatrix Lestrange was when the Death Eaters were still in operation, however they expected a different Lestrange to meet them after the acquittal. She made an indelible impression upon all of them. They had expected to meet a thug, but instead they met a woman they could almost imagine as one of them, a professional with high standards, until they looked closely into her eyes. They were as cold and as lifeless as an eel's. If it was true that the eyes were mirrors to the soul, then Bellatrix Lestrange had already given hers to the devil.

After ordering a fire whisky, she leaned back in the captain's chair and calmly demanded double the price Dedalus had offered.

"You've got to be kidding," Antonin said, "that's extortion."

"No, it's murder," Bella countered, "bigger risk means bigger money."

"It isn't… murder," Bartemius said, "this is a special case."

"What's so special about it?" Bella asked, "you want me to kill John's wife, don't you? Or was I mistaken?"

"No, but…"

"But what Bartemius? Does it bother you that I'm being blunt? I could use another word for murder if you want, but that won't change what you're hiring me to do." she shrugged and then said, "I want more money."

"We've already made you a very rich woman," John pointed out.

"Yes, you have."

"Listen, asshole, we agreed on a price," Antonin shouted, then looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard.

"Yes, we did," Bella replied. She seemed totally unaffected by the burst of anger, "But you didn't explain what you wanted done, did you? Imagine my surprise when I talked to Dedalus and found out the details."

"What did Dedalus tell you?" Bartemius wanted to know.

"That there was a problem you all wanted eliminated. Now that I know what the problem is, I'm doubling the price. I think that's quite reasonable. The risk is more substantial."

Silence followed the statement. Then Bartemius said, "I'm tapped out. Where are we going to come up with the rest of the money?"

"That's my problem, not yours," John said. He turned to Bella then. "I'll even throw in an additional ten thousand if you'll agree to wait until after the will is read to get paid."

Bella tilted her head. "An extra ten thousand. Sure, I'll wait. I know where to find you. Now give me the details. I know who you want killed, so why don't you tell me when, where, and how much you want her to suffer."

John was shaken. He cleared his throat, gulped down half a glass of fire whisky, and whispered, "Oh, God, no. I don't want her to suffer. She's _been_ suffering."

"She's terminally ill," Bartemius explained.

John nodded. "There isn't much hope for her, I can't stand to see her in so much pain. It's constant, never ending. I…" he was too emotionally distraught to continue.

Bartemius quickly took over, "When John started talking crazy about killing himself, we knew we had to do something to help."

Bella motioned him to be quiet as the waitress walked toward them. She placed another round of drinks on the table and told them she'd be back in a minute to take their dinner orders.

As soon as she walked away, Bella said, "Look, John. I didn't realize that your wife was sick. I guess I sounded a little cold. Sorry about that."

"Sorry enough to cut your price down?" Antonin asked.

"No, I'm not that sorry."

"So are you going to do it, or what?" John asked impatiently.

"It's intriguing," Bella said, "I would actually be doing a good deed, wouldn't I?"

She asked for the particulars about the wife's unfortunate condition and wanted to know about the living situation inside the house. As John was answering her questions, Bella leaned forward and spread her hands in front of him. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured; the pads smooth and callus free. She stared straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought, as if she were constructing the details of the job in her head.

After John finished describing the floor plan, the alarm system, and the house elves daily routine, he tensely waited for more questions.

"So the house elves sleep after 10pm each night. What about the personal house elf?"

"Flora is her name," John said. "She stays until eleven thirty each night, except for Mondays, when I'm usually home so she can leave by six."

"Any friends or relatives I need to be concerned about?"

John shook his head. "Mafalda cut her friends off years ago. She doesn't like visitors. She's embarrassed about her… condition."

"What about relatives?"

"There's one uncle and a couple of cousins, but she's all but severed ties with them. Says they're Muggle-lovers. The uncle calls once a month. She tries to be polite, but he doesn't stay on the phone long, it tires her."

"Does this uncle ever stop by uninvited?"

"No, she hasn't seen him in years. You don't have to worry about him."

"Then I wont," Bella said smoothly.

"I don't want her to suffer… I mean, when you actually… is that possible?"

"Of course it is," Bella said, "I have a compassionate nature. I'm not a monster. Believe it or not, I have strong values and unbendable ethics," she boasted, and none of the four dared laugh at the contradiction. A hired killer with ethics? Insane, yes, yet they all sagely nodded agreement. If Bella had told them she could walk on water, they would have pretended to believe her.

When Bella finished discussing her virtues and got down to the business at hand, she had told John she didn't believe in cruel or unnecessary pain, and even though she'd promised that there would be little suffering during "the event", she suggested, just as a precaution, that John increase the amount of painkillers his wife took before bed. Nothing else was to change. John was to set the guards as he did every night before retiring, and then he was to go to his room and stay there. Bella guaranteed, with an assurance they all found obscenely comforting, that she would be dead by morning.

She was a woman of her word. She killed her during the night. How she had gotten inside the house and out again without setting of the wards was beyond John's comprehension. The ethereal Bella had entered the premises without being seen or heard, and had quickly and efficiently dispatched the long-suffering woman into oblivion.

To prove that she had been there, she placed a rose on the pillow next to her, just as she had told John she would do, to erase any doubt as to who should receive credit and final payment for the kill. John removed the rose before he called for help.

John agreed to an autopsy so there wouldn't be any questions raised later. The pathology report indicated she had choked to death on chocolates. A clump of chocolate covered caramel the size of a jawbreaker was found lodged in her esophagus. There were bruises around her neck, but it was assumed that they were self-inflicted as she attempted to dislodge the obstacle while she was suffocating. The death was ruled accidental; the file was officially closed, and the body was released for burial.

Because of her considerable bulk, it would have taken at least eight strong pallbearers to carry her coffin, which the funeral director delicately explained would have to be specially built. With a rather embarrassed and certainly pained expression, he told the widower in so many words that it simply would not be possible to squeeze all of the deceased into one of their ready made, polished mahogany, satin-lined coffins. He suggested that it would be more prudent to cremate the body, and the husband readily agreed.

The service was a private affair attended by a handful of John's relatives and a few close friends. Bartemius came, but Antonin and Dedalus begged off. Mafalda's personal house-elf was there, and John could hear Flora's wailing as he left the church. He saw her in the vestibule, clutching her rosary beads and glaring at him with her damn-you-to-hell-for-your-sins stare. John dismissed the nearly hysterical elf without a backward glance.

Two mourners from Mafalda's side of the family also came, but they walked behind the others as the pitifully small group marched in procession toward the mausoleum. John kept glancing over his shoulder at the man and woman. He had the distinct feeling they were staring at him, but when he realized how nervous they were making him, he turned his back on them and bowed his head.

The heavens wept for Mafalda and sang her eulogy. While the minister prayed over her, lightening cracked and snapped, and thunder bellowed. The torrential downpour didn't let up until the ash-filled urn was locked inside the vault.

Mafalda was finally at peace, and her husband's torment was over. His friends expected him to grieve but at the same time feel relief that his wife wasn't suffering any longer. He had loved the woman with all his heart, hadn't he?

Despite others urging him to take some time off, the widower went back to work the day after the funeral. He insisted he needed to keep busy in order to take his mind of the anguish.

It was a bright, blue, cloudless day as he looked out of his window at his office. The sun warmed his shoulders. The scent of honeysuckle hung heavily in the humid air. His favorite song blared through the speakers of the WMD.

When had opened the door bearing his name, his secretary hurried forward to offer her heartfelt condolences. He remarked to her that his wife would have loved such a glorious summer day, and she later told the others in the office that there had been tears in his eyes when he'd said Mafalda's name.

As the days passed, he appeared to be battling his depression. During most of his hours at work he seemed withdrawn and distant, going through his routine as if in a daze. Other times, he seemed shockingly cheerful. His erratic behavior concerned his staff, but they dismissed it as the understandable remnants of his grief. The best thing they could give him now was space. John was not one to discuss his feelings, and they all knew what a private person he was.

What they didn't know was that John was also quite a busy boy.

Within a couple of weeks after "the event," he had thrown out every painful reminder of his wife, including the Italian Renaissance furniture she had so loved. He dismissed her loyal house elves and hired ones that hadn't know Mafalda. He had the two-story house painted from top to bottom in bright, bold colors, and he had the garden re-landscaped. He added the fountain he wanted, the one with the cherub spouting water out of its mouth. He'd wanted the fountain for months, but when he'd shown Mafalda a picture of it in a catalog, she had declared it too gaudy.

Everything was finished to his satisfaction. He'd chosen contemporary furniture because of the sleek, uncluttered lines. When it was delivered from the warehouse where he'd been storing it, the interior designer personally oversaw the placement of each piece.

Then, when the last delivery truck had pulled away from the driveway, he and the oh-so-clever, beautiful young designer christened the new bed. They shagged the night away in the black-lacquered four-poster, just like he'd been promising her for over a year.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Draco Malfoy could not seem to shake the virus. He knew he was running a fever, because every bone in his body ached and he had chills. He refused to acknowledge that he was ill, though; he was just a little off-kilter, that was all. He could tough it out. Besides, he was sure he was over the worst of it. The god-awful stitch in his side had subsided into a dull throbbing, and he was positive that meant he was on the mend. If it was the same bug that had infected most of the staff back in the Ministry, then it was one of those twenty-four-hour things, and he should be feeling as good as new by tomorrow morning. Except, the throbbing in his side had been going on for a couple of days now.

He decided to blame Harry for that ache. He had really nailed him when they had played Quidditch at the annual Ministry Commemoration Day game. Yeah, the pulled muscle was Harry's fault, but Draco figured that if he continued to ignore it, the pain would eventually go away.

Damn, he was feeling like an old man these days, and he was not even thirty-three yet.

He did not think he was contagious, and he had too much to do to go to bed and sweat the fever out of his body. He had port-keyed from Yorkshire Moores to Holborn to speak at a Ministry law symposium on organized crime and to receive recognition he did not believe he deserved for simply doing his job.

He slipped his wand into his pocket. The thing was a nuisance, but he was required to wear it constantly for the time being or at least until the death threats he had been receiving while trying the mob case died down. He put on the jacket to his tuxedo, went into the bathroom of his hotel room, and leaned close to the framed vanity mirror to adjust his tie. He caught a glimpse of himself. He looked half-dead. His face was covered with sweat.

Tonight was the first of three black-tie affairs. Dinner was going to be prepared by five of the top chefs in Wizarding London, but the gourmet food was going to be wasted on him. The thought of swallowing anything, even water, made his stomach lurch. He had not eaten anything since yesterday afternoon.

He certainly was not up to pointless chitchat tonight. He tucked the room key into his pocket and reached for the doorknob as the fireplace glimmered and a face appeared.

It was Harry calling to check in.

"What's going on?"

"I'm walking out the door," Draco answered. "Where are you calling from? Yorkshire Moores or Chelsea?"

"Chelsea," Harry answered. "I helped Laurant close down the lake house, and then we Apparated back home together."

"Is she staying with you until the wedding?"

"Are you kidding me? Dean would send me straight to hell."

Draco laughed. "I guess having a priest for a future brother-in-law does put a crimp in your sex life."

"A couple of months and I'm gonna be a married man. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"It's hard to believe any woman would have you."

"Laurant's nearsighted. I told her I was good-looking and she believed me. She's staying with her family until the wedding. What are you doing tonight?"

"I've got a fund-raiser I have to go to," he answered. "So what do want?"

"I just thought I'd call in and say hello."

"No, you didn't. You want something. What is it? Come on, Potter. I'm gonna be late."

"Draco, you've got to learn to slow down. You can't keep running for the rest of your life. I know what you're doing. You think that if you bury yourself in work, you won't think about Vicky. It's been four years since she died in the War, but you-"

Draco cut him off. "I like my life, and I'm not in the mood to talk about Victoria."

"You're a workaholic."

"Did you call to lecture me?"

"No, I called to see how you were doing."

"Uh-huh."

"You're in a beautiful city with beautiful women, incredible food-"

"So what do you want?"

Harry gave up. "Dean and I want to take your sailboat out tomorrow."

"Father Thomas is there?"

"Yeah. He Apparated back with Laurant and me," he explained.

"Let me get this straight. You and Dean want to take my sailboat out, and neither of you knows how to sail?"

"What's your point?"

"What about my fishing boat? Why don't you take the _Avenger_ out instead? She's sturdier."

"We don't want to fish. We want to sail."

Draco sighed. "Try not to sink her, okay? And don't let Laurant go with you guys. I like her. I don't want her to drown. I've got to hang up now."

"Wait. There's something else."

"What?"

"Laurant's been bugging me to call you."

"Is she there? Let me talk to her," he said. He sat down on the side of the bed and realized he was feeling better. Harry's fiancée had that effect on everyone. She made them all feel good.

"She isn't here. She went out with Lavender, and you know Lavender. God only knows what time they'll get home. Anyway, I promised Laurant I'd track you down and ask…"

"What?"

"She wanted me to ask you, but I figure I didn't need to," he said. "It's understood."

Draco held his patience. "What's understood?"

"You're gonna be my best man in the wedding."

"What about Ron?"

"He's in the wedding, of course, but I'm expecting you to be best man. I figured you already knew that, but Laurant thought I should ask you anyway, cause of the rift and all."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, what?"

Draco smiled. "Yeah, okay."

His friend was a man of few words. "Okay, good. Have you given your speech yet?"

"No, that's not until tomorrow night."

"When do you get your trophy?"

"It's a plaque, and I get it right before I give my speech."

"So, if you blow it and put all those armed officers to sleep, they can't take the trophy back can they?"

"I'm leaving."

"Hey, Draco? For once, stop thinking about work. See the sights. Get laid. You know, have a good time. Hey, I know… why don't you give Blaise a call? He's on an assignment there for a few months. He could drive over, and the two of you could have some fun."

If anyone knew how to have fun, it was Blaise Zabini. The Auror had become close friends with both Draco and Harry after working on several assignments for the Phoenix during the War. Blaise was a good Wizard, but he had a wicked sense of fun, and Draco was not sure he could survive a night out with Blaise just now.

"Okay, maybe," he answered.

Draco closed the connection, stood, and quickly doubled over from the pain that radiated through his right side. It had started in his belly, but it had moved down, and, damn, but it stung. The muscle he pulled felt like it was on fire.

A stupid Quidditch injury was not going to keep him down. Muttering to himself, he grabbed his reading glasses, and left the room. By the time he had Apparated to the lobby, the pain had receded and he was feeling almost human again. That, of course, only reinforced his own personal golden rule. Ignore the pain and it will go away. Besides, a Malfoy could tough out anything.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

It was a night to remember.

Ginerva Weasley had never attended such an extravagant affair before, and as she stood on the steps overlooking the hotel ballroom, she felt like Alice about to fall through the looking glass into Wonderland.

There were flowers everywhere, beautiful spring flowers in sculptured urns on the marble floors and in crystal vases on all the white linen tablecloths. In the very center of the ballroom, beneath a magnificent crystal chandelier, was a cluster of giant hothouse magnolia trees in full bloom. Their heavenly fragrance filled the air.

Waiters glided smoothly through the crowd carrying silver trays with fluted champagne glasses while others rushed from table to table lighting long, white, tapered candles.

Natalie MacDonald, a friend since Hogwarts days, stood by Ginny's side, taking it all in.

"I'm out of my element here," Ginny whispered. "I feel like an awkward teenager."

"You don't look like one," Natalie said. "I might as well be invisible. I swear every man is staring at you."

"No, they're staring at my obscenely tight dress. How could anything look so plain and ordinary on a hanger and so-"

"So devastatingly sexy on you? It clings to all the right places. Face it, you've got a great figure."

"I should never have spent so much money on a dress."

"For heaven's sake, Ginny, its an Armani. You got it for a song, I might add."

Ginny self-consciously brushed her hand down the side of the soft fabric. She thought about how much she had paid for the dress and decided she would have to wear it at least twenty times to make it cost-effective. She wondered if other women rationalized a frivolous expense to assuage the guilt. There were so many important things she could have used the money for, and when, in heaven's name, was she ever going to have another opportunity to wear this beautiful dress again? Not in Ottery St. Catchpole, she thought. Not in a million years.

"What was I thinking? I never should have let you talk me into buying this dress."

Natalie impatiently brushed a strand of white blond hair back over her shoulder. "Don't you dare start complaining about the cost again. You never spend money on yourself. I'll bet it's the first really gorgeous dress you've ever owned, isn't it? You're absolutely beautiful tonight. Promise me you'll stop worrying and enjoy yourself."

Ginny nodded. "You're right. I'll stop worrying."

"Good. Now let's go mingle. There are hors d'oeuvres and champagne out in the courtyard, and we've got to eat at least a thousand galleons' worth each. That's what I heard the tickets cost. I'll meet you there."

Her friend had just gone down the stairs when Dr. Cooper spotted Ginny and motioned her to join him. He was the chief of surgery at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, where she had been moonlighting the past month. Cooper was usually reserved, but the champagne had rid him of his inhibitions, and he was quite affectionate. And effervescent. He kept telling her how happy he was that she was using the tickets he had given her and how pretty she looked all dressed up. Ginny thought that if Dr. Cooper got any happier, he was going to pass out in the soup.

While Dr. Cooper expostulated on the attributes of crawfish, spraying spit every time he said the word "fish", she backed away to get out of firing range. A few minutes later, Cooper's wife joined them with another older couple in tow. Ginny used the opportunity to sneak away.

She did not want to be trapped sitting next to the Coopers during dinner. The only thing worse than a happy drunk, was a flirtatious one, and Cooper was definitely heading in that direction. She walked around into the adjacent hallway with the bank or elevators, hoping there was a way to get to the courtyard since the Coopers, who she wanted to avoid, were standing near the other entrance.

That is when she noticed him. He was leaning against a pillar, hunched over protectively to one side. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, well built, like an athlete, she thought. However, there was a sickly gray pallor to his complexion, and as she walked toward him, she saw him grimace and grab his stomach.

He was obviously in trouble. She touched his arm to get his attention just as the elevator doors opened. He staggered upright and looked down at her. His gray eyes were glazed with pain.

"Do you need help?"

He answered by throwing up all over her.

She could not get out of the way because he had grabbed hold of her arm. His knees buckled then, and she knew he was going to go down. She wrapped her arms around his waist and tried to ease him to the floor, but he lurched forward at the same time, taking her with him.

Draco's head was spinning. He landed on top of the woman. He heard her groan and desperately tried to find the strength to get up. He thought he might be dying, and he did not think that would be such a bad thing if death would make the pain go away. It was unbearable now. His stomach rolled again, and another wave of intense agony cut through him. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be stabbed over and over again. He passed out then, and when he next opened his eyes, he was flat on his back and she was leaning over him.

He tried to bring her face into focus. She had pretty, amber eyes, more yellow than brown, he thought, and freckles on the bridge of her nose. Then, as suddenly as it had stopped, the fire started burning in his side again, so much worse than before.

A spasm wrenched his stomach, and he jerked. "Son of a bitch."

The woman was talking to him, but he could not understand what she was saying. What the hell was she doing to him? Was she robbing him? Her hands were everywhere, tugging at his jacket, his tie, and his shirt. She was trying to straighten out his legs. She was hurting him, damn it, and every time he tried to push her hands away they came back to poke and prod some more.

Draco kept slipping in and out of consciousness. He felt a rocking motion and heard a siren blaring close to his head. Amber Eyes was still there too, pestering him. She was asking him questions again. Something about allergies. Did she want him to be allergic to something?

"Yeah, sure."

He felt her open his jacket, knew she could see the wand above his hip. He was crazed with pain now and could not seem to think straight. He only knew he could not let her take his wand.

She was a damned talkative mugger. He would give her that. She looked like one of those J. Crew models. Sweet, he thought. No, she was not sweet. She kept hurting him.

"Look, lady, you can take my wallet, but you're not getting my wand. Got that?" He could barely get the words out through his gritted teeth.

Her hand pressed into his side. He reacted instinctively, knocking her back. He thought he might have connected with something soft because he did not hear her yell before he went under again.

Draco did not know how long he was out, but when he opened his eyes, the bright lights made him squint. Where the hell was he? He could not summon up enough energy to move. He thought he might be on a table. It was hard, cold.

"Where am I?" His mouth was so dry he slurred the question.

"You're in St. Mungo's hospital, Mr. Malfoy." The man's voice came from behind him, but Draco could not see him.

"Did they catch her?"

"Who?"

"J. Crew."

"He's loopy." A female voice he did not recognize made the comment.

Draco suddenly realized he was not in any pain. He felt good, in fact. Very good. Like he could fly. Odd, though, he did not have the strength to move his arms. A mask was placed over his mouth and nose. He turned his head to get away from it.

"Are you getting sleepy, Mr. Malfoy?"

He turned his head again and saw her. Amber Eyes. She looked like an angel, all golden. Wait a minute. What the hell was she doing here? Wait…

"Ginny, are you going to be able to see what you're doing? That eye looks bad."

"Its fine."

"How'd it happen?" the voice behind Draco's head asked.

"He clipped me."

"The patient decked you?"

"That's right." She was staring into Draco's eyes when she answered. She had a green mask on, but he knew she was smiling.

He was in such a happy daze now and so sleepy he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Conversation swirled around him, but none of it made any sense.

A woman's voice asked, "Where did you find _him_, Dr. Weasley?"

"At a party."

Another woman leaned over him. "Hubba, hubba."

"Was it love at first sight?"

"You decide. He threw up all over me and ruined my new dress."

Someone laughed. "Sounds like love to me. I'll bet he's married. All the good-looking men are married. This one's sure built. Did you check out the goods, Annie?"

"I hope our patient is sleeping."

"Not yet," a male voice said. "But he isn't going to remember anything."

"Where's the assist?"

"Scrubbing."

There seemed to be a party going on, Draco thought. Here were at least twenty or thirty people in the room with him. Why was it so damned cold? Who was making all that clatter? He was thirsty. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Maybe he ought to go get a drink. Yeah, that is what he would do.

"Where's Dr. Cooper?"

"Probably passed out in the desert by now." Amber Eyes answered the question. Draco loved the sound of her voice. It was so damn sexy.

"So you saw Cooper at the party?"

"Uh-huh," Amber Eyes answered. "He wasn't on call tonight. He works hard. It was nice to see him having a good time. Natalie's probably having a great time too."

"You." Draco struggled to get the word out. Still, he had gotten her attention because when he opened his eyes, she was leaning over him, blocking out the glaring light above him.

"It's time for you to go to sleep Mr. Malfoy."

"He's fighting it."

"What…" Draco began.

"Yes?"

"What do you want from me?"

The man hiding behind him answered. "Ginny wants your appendix, Mr. Malfoy."

It sounded good to him. He was always happy to accommodate a beautiful woman. "Okay," he whispered. "It's in my wallet."

"We're ready."

"It's about time," the man said.

"Who do you want to hear tonight, Dr. Weasley?"

"Need you ask, Annie?"

A groan went around the room. Then a click. Draco heard the chair squeak behind him, then the stranger's voice telling him to take deep breaths. Draco finally figured out who the man behind him was. Damn if it was not Willie Nelson, and he was singing to him, something about eyes cryin' in the rain.

It was one hell of a party.


	4. Chapter four

Chapter Four

Draco slept through recovery. When he awoke the following morning, he was in a hospital bed. The side rails were up, and he was hooked to a machine. He closed his mind and tried to clear his mind. What the hell had happened to him? He couldn't remember.

It was past ten o'clock when he opened his eyes again. She was there, standing beside the bed, pulling the sheets up around his waist. Amber Eyes. He hadn't imagined her after all.

She looked different today. She was still dressed in surgical scrubs, but her hair wasn't hidden underneath a cap. It was down around her shoulders, and the color was a deep, rich auburn.

She was much prettier than he remembered.

She noticed he was awake. "Good morning. How are you feeling? Still a little drowsy?"

He struggled to sit up. She flicked her wand. The head of the bed slowly rose. Draco felt a tugging in his side and a mild stinging sensation.

"Tell me when."

"That's good," he said. "Thanks."

She picked up his chart and started writing while he blatantly stared at her. He felt vulnerable and awkward sitting in bed in a hospital gown. He couldn't think of anything clever to say to her. For the first time in his life he wanted to be charming, but he didn't have the faintest idea how to go about it. He was a die-hard workaholic, and there simply hadn't been room for social graces in his life. In the last four years- since his wife's death- he had become blunt, abrasive, and to the point because it saved time, and Draco, these days anyway, was always in a hurry to get things done. This sudden turnabout surprised him. He actually wanted to be charming. Go figure. Still, Draco thought he could manage it. Yeah. Charming was definitely doable.

"Do you remember what happened last night?" she asked, glancing up from her notes.

"I had surgery."

"Yes, your appendix was removed. Another fifteen minutes and you definitely would have ruptured."

"I remember bits and pieces. What happened to your eye?"

She smiled as she started writing in his chart again. "I didn't duck fast enough."

"Who are you?"

"Dr. Weasley."

"Ginny?"

"Excuse me?"

"Someone called you Ginny. You're Ron's little sister."

Ginevera closed the folder, and tucked the quill back into her pocket. She gave him her full attention. The surgical nurses were right. Draco Malfoy was gorgeous… and sexy as hell. But none of that should matter. She was his physician, nothing more, nothing less, yet she couldn't help reacting to him as any woman would naturally react to such a fit specimen. His hair was sticking up and he needed a shave, but he was still sexy. There wasn't anything wrong with noticing that… unless, of course, he noticed her noticing.

"You just asked me a question, didn't you?" She drew a blank.

He could tell he rattled her, but he didn't know why. "You're Ginny Weasley?"

She nodded. "Yes. The staff calls me Ginny. Its short for Ginevra."

"Ginevera's a pretty name."

"Thank you."

It was all coming back to Draco now. He was at a party, and there was this beautiful woman in a slinky black evening gown. She was breathtaking. He remembered that. She had killer amber eyes and there was some singer with her. No, that couldn't be right. Obviously, his head hadn't cleared yet.

"You were talking to me… after the surgery," he said.

"In recovery. Yes," she agreed. "But you were doing most of the talking." She was smiling again.

"Yeah? What did I say?"

"Mostly gibberish," she said.

"You took my wand. Where is it?"

"Locked up in the hospital safe with your other personal possessions. Dr. Cooper will make sure you get them back before you leave. He's going to be taking over your care. You'll meet him in a little while when he makes his rounds."

"Why?"

"Why what, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Draco," he corrected. "My name's Draco."

"Yes, I know. I remember you from Hogwarts. And by the way, the answers no. I won't marry you. You were very talkative whilst in pre-op."

He smiled, sure she was joking. "I don't remember being in pre-op. I remember the pain though. It hurt like a son of a…"

"I'm sure it did."

"You did the surgery, didn't you? I didn't imagine that?"

"Yes, I did the surgery."

She was backing out of the room. He didn't want her to leave just yet. He wanted to find out more about her. Hell, he wished he were more adept at small talk.

"Wait."

She stopped. "Yes?"

"Water… could I have a glass of water?"

She went to the bedside table, poured a tiny bit of water into a glass, and handed it to him. "Just a sip," she said. "If you get nauseated and throw up, you'll mess up my stitches."

"Okay," he said. He took a drink and handed the glass back to her.

"You don't look old enough to be a surgeon." Stupid, he though, but it was the best he could come up with at the moment.

"I hear that a lot."

"You look like you should be in college." That statement, he decided, was worse than stupid.

"Dr. Weasley? May I interrupt?" A male aide was standing in the hallway, shifting a large cardboard box under his arm.

"Yes, Bobby?"

"Dr. Cooper filled this box with medical supplies from his office for your clinic," the young man said. "What do you want me to do with it? Dr. Cooper left it at the nurses' station, but they wanted it moved. It was in the way."

"Would you mind taking it down to my locker?"

"Its too big, Dr. Weasley. It won't fit. It isn't heavy, though."

She glanced around, then looked at Draco. "Would you mind if Bobby left my box here? My father will carry it down just as soon as he arrives."

"I don't mind," Draco said.

"I wont be seeing you again. I'm going home today, but don't worry. You're in good hands. Dr. Cooper's chief of surgery here and he'll take good care of you."

"Where's home?"

"Ottery St. Catchpole."

"Whats that?"

She smiled again, and he noticed the little dimple in her left cheek. "Home is a little town that's pretty much surrounded by fields and wood-land, and I can't wait to get back there."

"Homesick?"

"Yes, I am," she admitted. "I'm a small town girl at heart. It isn't a very glamorous life, and that's what I like about it."

"You like living in the middle of nowhere." It was a statement not a question, but she responded anyway.

"You sound shocked."

"No, just surprised."

"You're from a big, sprawling city, so you'd probably hate it."

"Why do you say that?"

She shrugged. "You always seemed so… sophisticated in comparison to everyone else."

He didn't know if that was a compliment or a criticism. "Sometimes you can't go home. I think I read that in a book once." He mused. "So, are you the town doctor?"

"One of several," she said. "I'm opening a clinic there. It's not very fancy, but there's a real need. So many of the people don't have the resources to get regular medical care."

"Sounds like they're very lucky to have you."

She shook her head. "Oh, no, I'm the lucky one." Then she laughed. "That sounded saintly, didn't it? I am the lucky one, though. The people are wonderful- at least I think they are- and the give me far more than I can give them," When she spoke, her whole face lit up. "You know what I'm going to like best?"

"What's that?"

"No games. For the most part, they're honest, ordinary people trying to scrape a living together. They don't waste a lot of time on foolishness."

"So, everyone loves everyone else?" He scoffed at the notion.

"No, of course not," she replied. "But I'll know my enemies. They wont sneak up behind me and blindside me. It isn't their style." She smiled again. "They'll get right in my face, and I'm going to like that. Like I said, no games. After the residency I just finished, that's going to be a refreshing change."

"You wont miss the big, beautiful office and all the trappings?"

"Not really. There are rewards other than money. Oh sure, it would be great to have all the supplies and equipment we need, but we'll make do. I've spent a lot of years getting ready for this… besides, I made a promise."

He kept asking questions to keep her talking. He was interested in hearing about her town but not nearly as much as he was fascinated with her expressions. There was such passion and joy in her voice, and her eyes sparkled as she talked about her family and friends and the good she hoped she could do.

She reminded him of how he had felt about life after his parents had passed away, when he'd started losing his cynicism towards life. He, too, had wanted to change the world, to make it a better place. But Victoria had ended all that. Looking back he had failed miserably.

"I've worn you out, going on and on about my hometown. I'll let you rest now," she sai.

"When can I get out of here?"

"That's Dr. Cooper's call, but if it were up to me, I'd keep you another night. You had quite a nasty infection. You need to take it easy for a couple of weeks, and don't forget to take your potions. Good luck, Draco."

And then she was gone, and he'd lost the only chance he had to find out more about her. He knew where her home was though. He fell asleep trying to figure out a way to see her again.


	5. Chapter five

_Note- Otis, comes from the movie Milo and Otis. _

Chapter Five

The room was filled with flowers when Draco woke up from his morning nap. He heard whispering in the hallway, opened his eyes, and saw a nurse talking to an older man. She was pointing to the box the aide had left.

"I don't want to disturb you," the man said. "I'd just like to puck up this box Dr. Cooper fixed up for my daughter and be on my way."

"Come in," Draco said. "You're Dr. Weasley's father, aren't you?"

"That's right. My name's Arthur. Arthur Weasley." He walked over to the side of the bed and shook Draco's hand. Draco didn't have to introduce himself. Arthur knew who he was. "My girl told me all about you. I'd like you to know, though, that whatever problems I held with your father, I wont hold with you."

"She told me about you?" He couldn't hide his surprise.

"Arthur nodded. "You must have been real quick, son, because me Ginny knows how to take care of herself."

Draco didn't know what the man was talking about. "I was 'quick'?"

"When you clipped her," he explained. "Where'd you think she got that shiner?"

"I did that?" He was incredulous. He had no memory of it, and she hadn't said anything about it. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I figured you didn't mean to hit her. She told me you were in considerable pain at the time. You were lucky she noticed you." He leaned against the bed rail and folded his arms across his chest. "Now, my daughter doesn't usually talk about her patients, but I knew she had gone to a fancy party wearing a brand-new dress she didn't want to spend money on, and when I asked her if she had a good time, she told me about you. She had only just gotten there when she had to turn around and go back to the hospital. She didn't get to have a single bite of food."

"I should apologize to her."

"You tore her dress. You should probably tell her you're sorry about that too."

"I tore her dress?"

"Just after you threw up on her." Arthur chuckled, and then shook his head. "Ruined that brand new four-hundred-dollar dress."

Draco groaned. He did remember doing that.

"You look like you need to get some rest. If you see my daughter will you tell her I'm waiting down in the lobby? It was sure nice to meet you again."

"Why don't you wait here?" Draco suggested. "I've slept as much as I'm going to" he added. "When your daughter comes looking for you, I can tell her thank you."

"I guess I could sit a spell. I don't want to wear you out though."

"You won't."

Arthur dragged a chair to the side of the bed and sat down. "Where's home, son?"

"Wiltshire."

"Are you married?"

"I was."

"Divorced?"

"No, my wife died."

His tone of voice suggested that Arthur not pursue that line of questioning.

"Any family left?"

"No, not really. Except for Blaise, he's not really related, but he's been more like a brother since I can remember."

"Where exactly is your home, sir? Your daughter was talking about her clinic and mentioned it."

"Call me Arthur," he insisted. "Ottery St. Catchpole, at the Burrow, is home, but I don't expect you've ever heard of it. The town's not big enough to be a speck on a map. Ottery's tiny, all right, but it's the prettiest stretch of land in all Wizarding Britain. Some afternoons when the sun's going down and the breeze picks up, the moss starts swaying and the light bounces off the river just so, and the frogs and the Acromantulas start in singing to each other… well, son, I think to myself that I must be living in paradise. It's that pretty. There's a hospital there on the north side. It's old, but adequate" he added.

"Do your sons live in the Burrow?"

"Percy, my oldest, now works for the Ministry of Magic as the Deputy Minster for Magic, he's still not married," Arthur added, "he comes home occasionally with Ron, who was in your year at Hogwarts, the middle one, left the Aurors after Voldemort's defeat and moved back to Ottery St Catchpole a couple of years ago; he's not married either. Too busy, I imagine. He lives in a nice little cabin he built deep in the woods, and when he isn't working in the bar for me, he's a carpenter. Last year we opened a brand new high school, and Ron helped build it. Dumbledore is what it's called. Named after a local celebrity."

"You don't meant its named after Headmaster Dumbledore… at Hogwarts… is that what you're saying?"

"That's the one, alright."

"You're saying Dumbledore lived in Ottery St. Catchpole?"

Arthur shook his head. "No, son, we cant boast that, but legend has it that Dumbledore roamed the area fishing. Of course this was before he became headmaster, before Ottery St. Catchpole was even a town. Still we liked to think that Dumbledore stayed a spell."

Draco managed not to laugh. It appeared that the people in Ottery St. Catchpole were hard-pressed for local heroes.

"Where does the name Ottery St. Catchpole come from?"

"It comes from the word Otter, like the animal."

"For Milo and Otis? Did Otis stop by too?"

"We like to think he did."

"You're not putting me on."

"No, I'm not," Arthur insisted. "Of course, Otis came by after Dumbledore left," he said.

"Is there proof that Dumbledore or Otis were in Ottery St. Catchpole?"

"None to speak of," Arthur admitted with a twinkle in his eye. "But we believe it to be true. Now, as I was telling you, the Ottery St Catchpole kids use to have to bus over to a fancy high school, but it just got too cramped. It was past time we had our own. We've even got a Quidditch team. We were all real excited about that last year… until we saw them play. Lord, they're a sorry lot at best. I never missed a game though, and I won't miss this year either because, now that my daughter is home, she'll be going with me. Ginny agreed to be the team's physician, which means she's got to sit on the sidelines and fix them up when they get hurt. We all know they're going to get trounced again, but I figure I ought to be supportive of their efforts by showing up and cheering them on. Wee didn't win a single game last year. We've got some real big kids, but they don't know what to do when they get any of the balls. They don't know how to hit either. You like to watch Quidditch, Draco?"

"Sure," he said.

"You ever play?"

"Yes, I did," he answered. "In Hogwarts and I play for the Auror team occasionally, but not too often since I trashed my knee."

"What position? You're tall, slim and wide enough on the shoulders. I'd guess seeker?"

Draco nodded. "That's right. It seems like a long time ago."

Arthur had a speculative gleam in his eyes. "You ever think about coaching?"

Draco laughed. "No, I haven't."

"Gin might be able to fix up your knee for you."

"You must be very proud of your daughter coming back home to open a clinic."

"Of course I'm proud of her," he said. "I'm not going to let her work herself to the bone, though. There are other doctors, and they'll be taking call for one another so each of them can have some time off now and again."

"Why is she doing surgery here in St. Mungos?"

"To make some extra money. They call it moonlighting, but she's finished now and won't be coming back. Do you like to fish?"

"I used to, but the last few years, there just hasn't been enough time for it," he admitted. I remember, though, there's nothing like that feeling of peace that comes over a man when he's-"

"Holding a fishing pole in one hand and a cold beer in the other?"

"Yeah, that's right. Nothing like it in the world."

They started discussing their favorite lures and bait, and then did a good deal of bragging about the fish they'd caught. Arthur was impressed. He didn't think anyone understood or loved fishing as much as he did, but he had to admit that from the way Draco talked, he had met his match.

"I'm telling you, you ought to come up to Ottery. We've got the best fishing in England, and I mean to prove it to you. We'll pass a good time out on my dock."

"I may take you up ton the offer sometime," he said.

"What do you do for a living?" Arthur asked.

"I'm an Auror."

"How come the Ministry is sending you flowers?" he asked. He looked sheepish as he added, "They were sitting on the counter at the nurses' station before they brought them on in here, and I read the card."

"I came to St James to give a speech," he said, leaving out the fact that he was being honored by the local authorities. "I work for the Justice Department."

"Doing what exactly?"

"I was assigned to a special task force," he said. He realized he was still being evasive and added, "the area was organized crime. I just finished up."

"Did you get your man?"

Draco smiled. "Yeah, I did."

"Are you out of a job now?"

"No," he answered. "The department wants me to stay on. I'm not sure what I'm going to do."

Arthur continued on with his questions. Draco thought he would have made a great lawyer. He had a sharp mind and a quick wit.

"You ever think of going into private practice?" Arthur asked.

"Sometimes."

"There aren't any good Aurors in Ottery St. Catchpole. All of them just rob you blind. Folks don't think much of them."

While Arthur talked about his time, Draco kept trying to think of a subtle way to bring Ginevra back into the conversation.

"Is your daughter married?" So much for subtle.

"I was wondering when you were going to get around to asking me about Ginny. The answer's no, she isn't married. She hasn't had the time. Of course, the men in Ottery are all trying to get her attention, but she's been too busy setting up her clinic to pay them any mind. She's still young," he added. "And smart. Lord, is my girl smart. She finished college before she was twenty, then started in on her medical training and joined the force during the War. She had to go out of state to do her residency, but she came home to visit every chance she got. She's mindful of family," he added with a nod. "And she's pretty too, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is."

"I figured you'd notice."

Arthur stood up and put the chair back against the wall. "It was nice passing time with you, but I should go now. You get some sleep and I'll take that box to the lobby. Dr. Cooper gave my daughter some old surgical equipment, and when she asked me to come and fetch it she was smiling like it was Christmas morning. If you ever make your way to Bowen, you be sure and come by the Burrow. That's my bar as well as my house," he explained. "Drinks on the house."

He was at the door when Draco stopped him. "If I don't see your daughter before she leaves, please tell her thank you for me, and also tell her how sorry I am about the dress."

"I'll be sure and tell her."

"Maybe our paths will cross again someday."

Arthur nodded. "Maybe so."


End file.
